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The five stood in the shadows of Valencia Boulevard, looking up at gold letters etched in black marble: DOA RECORDING STUDIOS.
Underneath, stenciled on the glass doors: NO SOLICITORS. NO LOITERING. NO LIVING.
It was almost midnight, but the lobby was brightly lit and full of people. Behind the security desk sat a tough looking guard with sunglasses and an earpiece.
Percy turned to the other four. "Okay. You remember the plan."
"The plan." Grover gulped. "Yeah. I love the plan."
"What happens if the plan doesn't work?" Annabeth asked.
"Don't think negative," Bronte told her. She could tell that Annabeth was radiating anxiety, since she kept on twisting the ends of her shirt or messing with the ends of her braids.
"Right," Annabeth sighed. "We're entering the Land of the Dead, and I shouldn't think negative."
Percy took out the three milky pearls from his pocket, staring down at them. He knew that something was bound to go wrong, but hoped that there would be a solution to get them all out of there alive.
Annabeth put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. You're right, we'll make it. It'll be fine."
"We got this," Bronte assured, a smile on her face. She had to be positive for them, because she knew that it wouldn't last for long.
They walked inside the DOA lobby. Waiting Room by Phoebe Bridgers played softly on hidden speakers.
Bronte paused, her mind instantly trying to figure out what part of the song was on. The lyrics, "Know it's for the better," continued to repeat and Bronte had to keep telling herself that what she was going to do was in fact, for the better.
The carpet and walls were steel grey. Pencil cactuses grew in the corners like skeleton hands. The furniture was black leather, and every seat was taken. There were people sitting on couches, people standing up, people staring out the windows or waiting for the elevator. Nobody moved, or talked, or did anything.
Bronte squinted, staring closely at the people waiting. If she looked long enough, they all started to turn transparent. She could see right through their bodies.
The security guard's desk was a raised podium, so they had to look up at him.
He was tall and elegant, with chocolate-colored skin and bleached-blonde hair shaved military style. He wore tortoiseshell shades and a silk Italian suit that matched his hair. A black rose was pinned to his lapel under a silver name tag.
Percy read the name tag, then looked at him in bewilderment. "Your name is Chiron?"
He leaned across the desk. "What a precious young lad." He had a strange accent–British, maybe, but also as if he had learned English as a second language. "Tell me, mate, do I look like a centaur?"
